


Loud Enough For Heaven To Hear

by Sodium_Azide



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Arguments, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Construction and Demolitions, Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Crowley's Orange Jacket (Good Omens), Fluff and Humor, M/M, noise complaints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29586666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodium_Azide/pseuds/Sodium_Azide
Summary: They are an angel and a demon. Powerful immortal entities beyond the understanding of humans. They also have dumb arguments.Written for the Unleash The Chaos zine
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35
Collections: Crowley's Demonic Side, Unleash The Chaos - Zine Fics and Art





	Loud Enough For Heaven To Hear

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure silliness. Just warning y'all.

**Day 0**

The door slammed open as the shouts echoed through the quiet night. “-no appreciation for good music, angel!”

“All I’m saying, my dear, is that the volume is so loud in the Bentley, it is indistinguishable from noise, despite what quality it purports to be.” came the snippy response.

“Noise? You think that’s noise? Oh, I’ll show you noise!”

The screech of tires faded slowly, as the bookshop door shut and locked itself firmly.

**Day 1**

The desultory waving of the reflective lollipops had no visible effect on the solid mass of cars crammed into every possible meter of roads. The ever-expanding gridlock was not quite motionless; twitching like an angry vein as impatient drivers released brake pedals and car bumpers nudged into adjoining sedans. 

The sheer volume of sound was slightly rattling the windows on the highrise buildings two blocks over; car horns, screaming children (and parents), and the machinery currently chewing up asphalt with the inhuman speed and complete absence of enjoyment displayed by the contestants at any hot-dog-eating-contest. 

The bored workers, kitted out in reflective helmets and ear defenders, continued on in the bedlam, half of them leaning on their shovels while two more scooped gravel from a truck into the cone-protected section of road not currently occupied by vehicles. Any possible respect for zebra crossings had vanished long ago, and at least two cars were tilted up with wheels ledged awkwardly up on sidewalks. The only other patch of clear road visible in any direction was occupied by the tall worker in an ill-fitting reflective jacket, still waving his bright directional batons in no clear pattern, a pleasant smile on his face as he made eye contact with various trapped drivers. He broke into a grin as one revved their engine threateningly. 

A blonde gentleman in a suit strode irritably through the vehicles, carrying a small bakery bag, and glared at the lollipop man before vanishing through the door of the old bookshop.

**Day 2**

There were several names for the machines, but Americans called them jackhammers. They had a clever little belt attached that looped around the person holding them, so that in the event of any functional issues or loss of control, the operator would certainly have no chance to escape their fate.

For some reason, nine of them were in simultaneous use on a single street, pounding the old sidewalks into useless piles of erratically ricocheting chips just big enough to crack windowglass at top speed, and powder just fine enough to not be easily swept up.

One of them intermittently suffered some kind of mechanical problem that caused an obscenely loud shrieking whine, climbing the auditory register to successively cause humans, then dogs, to cringe and cover their ears. 

A safety-jacketed workman, who might have been whistling somewhere underneath the overwhelming roar of concrete being shattered under the weight of progress, amiably stapled temporary signage onto telephone poles. The signs read: YIELD TO BICYCLES.

**Day 3**

The man being interviewed stood uneasily on loose gravel as he awkwardly raised his voice to be heard over the construction. “...and what would once have taken weeks or months is now a project that can be completed in a matter of days. My party has always believed in traditional values, but also that some of these older neighborhoods only serve as a sad remnant of times past, that have no place in our economic…” He flinched as a load of scrap lumber got dumped a few yards behind him with a huge plume of dust.

The newscaster cleared his throat as the wind died down, his smile still fixed in place. “And what is the goal of this project, sir?” he shouted.

The man tugged his public school tie just slightly and opened his mouth, then froze. A long moment of escalating awkwardness built. “Er...what our constituents want.” He called out.

The newscaster nodded encouragingly and raised his voice again. “Of course, sir. But what is the goal of this construction?”

“I...would have to consult our files. We have many different activities going at any given moment for the public good, and this was suggested recently as a very useful time-sensitive project…” The official yelled back.

The microphone dipped as the newscaster stared incredulously. “Do you not even know?” He shrieked.

Any reply was lost under the rumbling blast of an excavator reversing with a shrill beeping until it was directly in front of the camera, as the red-headed operator waved cheerfully at the group. “Sorry, but no filming is allowed unless you got a permit, and we got none on the list, so you ain’t got a permit!” He bellowed from the cockpit.

All eyes turned expectantly to the newscaster, who reached into his suit, only to freeze and bow off camera, flipping frantically through the filefolders in the newsvan. 

“Oi! No permit, no filming! Gonna have to toss whatever you just shot!” The workman waved again at the camera. “Does that little red light mean this is live?” 

The official blanched as the newscaster weakly rested his forehead against the side of the newsvan. The workman tugged on the lapels of his reflective jacket and beamed before flashing the peace sign at the camera. “I’m on TV! Hi, mom!”

**Day 4**

The scaffolds for the new sidewalk molds were coming together in a cacophony of pressurized nailguns and directional shouts as the concrete mixer slowly backed into place. The massive barrel rotated with a steady hissing drone of several tons of wet rock and limestone being tumbled together as the directional chute clanged down and the interlocking sections were roughly secured. 

Those not occupied with building molds scattered as they suited up in loose galoshes and kneepads, which meant none of them were near enough to help as the concrete mixer let out a rattling groan and the chute valve gave way with a scream of twisting metal. As the distressed foreman shouted into his mobile phone about defective equipment, the last of the group sauntered up, pulling a rolling barrow of square shovels. The shovels were mournfully dispersed, and the afternoon filled with wet scraping as the concrete poured uncontrollably from the constantly-rotating mixer.

**Day 5**

Unexpectedly, the road-rollers commonly used in London repaving projects for the last several years were just slightly too large to turn easily onto this particular SoHo street, necessitating loudspeaker-ed instructions and frantic hand gestures as the driver painstakingly moved forward a few inches, made a tiny adjustment, and reversed, with the automatic safety beeping warningly with each reversal, over the course of ninety minutes. The project foreman tiredly agreed to the extra rental fee for the delay over the phone, with an addenda for operator overtime, before the massive machine was in alignment and the rest of the day was filled with the antediluvian roar of the road substrate being compressed via the power of engineering and hundreds of gallons of diesel. 

The driver whooped happily as he flattened everything in front of the machine, red hair peeking out from underneath the mandatory safety helmet.

The foreman sat on one of the temporary barricades and rubbed his forehead, before a man, obviously one of the city contractors, politely provided a pen and several forms, with the spots for required signatures helpfully flagged with little adhesive arrows. The foreman sighed and scribbled where the worker pointed.

**Day 6**

Much to the crew’s relief, they had been able to get the special dispensation against noise mitigation requirements, and just in time, based on the determined facial expression on the bookshop owner stomping into the street who looked like he had a stack of complaints to file. Primly tugging on the sleeve of the tallest workman, he started murmuring lowly. The worker’s safety goggles, far darker than regulation required, reflected the sun as he threw back his head and cackled, and the civilian patted his arm and made his way back home.

**Day 7**

“Nice vintage, angel.”

“Well, it is my apology to you. I was rather unkind last week.”

“You were more unkind to the Bentley, really. It’s her musical taste you were insulting.”

“Yes, dear. I already apologized to her.”

“...wot?”

“Did you not notice that you did not have to miracle a parking place? The gentleman in charge of your little project kindly agreed to add a place for vehicles with a particular placard in front of the shop.”

“I don’t…”

“I already took care of that dear. The Bentley certainly deserves her own parking place, yes?”

“...how?”

“You are not the only one with a jacket, dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> The moral of the story is that the Bentley deserves her own parking space.


End file.
